A Thousand Shades of Blue
by lookskindagreyout
Summary: *"There's death involved. And that's key, really. Nothing much can be accomplished, without it- but it often brings about a rather abrupt end, to the festivities." Waltivia challenge fic
1. 1: Insulin Shock

Pardon, please! I posted this first chapter in a rush, so I didn't give credit where credit was due. This is a challenge fic, that I have Lolita tides to thank for. The consept of a Waltivia (thanks for the amazing contraction, btw) still has yet to be explored, and I'm having fun delving into the unknown.

_*I do not own Fringe, nor any of the totally unrealistic pairings it inspires.^ ^_

1. Insulin shock

He woke up because the sun was so hot on his chest. He only vaguely registered the amplification of the heat through the tempered glass before he let out a frightened exclamation at the sudden jostling of the vehicle, sending the articles in the cab clattering about loudly. Walter removed his parka from his face, pushing sweat away from his eyebrows with his fingertips as he sat up, his gaze blurred and thoughts hazy. But that may have been a come-down from the narcotics.

Peter glanced back at him as Walter rested his forearms on the back of his son's seat, letting out a tired sigh, "Sorry," Peter said with a small smile, "I wanted to let you sleep a bit more. But the road out here is horrible."

Walter said nothing, resting his forehead on Peter's shoulder in a lazy motion to wipe away the sweat on his brow in a joking manner. The attempt was far too melancholy- everything he did was horribly sad, these days, his assistant sometimes looked as if she were about to cry, when she watched him- and it registered only as a gentle nuzzle.

Peter smiled and sighed, ruffling his father's slightly damp hair, "You're tired, Walter." He did not scold him in any way, for his sudden closeness. He knew that it would have been insult to injury, "Go back to sleep."

Walter shook his head, "I'm parched."

"Oh." Peter looked away from the road to grab a bottle of water from the off drivers' seat. He passed it over his shoulder as Walter sat up, accepting it from him, "Sorry, it isn't cold. I'll get you a soda or something when we finish."

Walter was drinking, a small trickle of water escaping the corner of his mouth to roll down his chin and land on his collar. He finished and capped the bottle, rubbing his face on his sleeve and settling back in the seat to stare unseeingly out at the passing scenery.

Peter watched him in the rearview mirror, when he could, "Walter, are you sure about this?" he asked at last.

"Yes," Walter answered immediately, if even a bit coldly.

Peter sighed again, and they pulled past the ivy-cluttered gates of the cemetery, the junk in the back of the car jumbling around to land in Walter's lap. They consisted of a few old magazines, a pair of thick, leather soldering gloves, and an old, broken alarm clock.

Sunlight reflected from the puddles of rainwater and the clean, polished slabs of marble, and Walter squinted in the sudden glares, "The sun came out, today," he said softly.

"Yeah. The news said something about it being the eye of the storm, some crap like that."

"Huh." Walter rubbed his bottom lip with his sleeve, trying to think of nothing at all.

xXx

The storm had started when she'd given up. Or perhaps when he had decided to accept it.

"Is Peter here?" Olivia asked, standing in the doorway. Her hair was darker and clung to her black leather jacket, in the rain. She did not look well.

"No, I'm sorry," Walter had replied courteously, "He's out. With that one girl. He sees more and more of her, lately. Did you need him?"

"No," Olivia said without special emphasis. They stood in silence for a few moments.

"Won't you come in?" Walter asked, nodding his head back toward the room.

"Why are you naked?"

Walter grinned.

He retrieved her a towel for her hair and donned pajamas solely for her comfort. Olivia did not comment, even as he brought out chips and salsa. These were mainly for his own use, rather than that of his very silent guest, whom he watched quietly as he ate.

Olivia reached up to adjust the towel over her head, and Walter's brows arched sharply at the stains of blood on the sleeves of her shirt. She spotted his concerned gaze and snapped, "What? Are you going to lecture me, too?"

"You did it wrong," Walter replied, tilting the jar to get at the tomatoes.

"What?!"

"Horizontal. Criss-cross. Whatever you want to call it, it's wrong. Slit yourself vertically- that's the ticket. Chip?" She'd burst into tears at his offer, and he'd retracted, alarmed, "Ah- no- um, no chips. I get it."

Her face was hidden in her hands as she shook mutely.

At length, Walter had leaned across the low table between them, gently lifting the towel away and stroking her disheveled hair. "They'll heal. The scars will even fade. But the guilt won't."

"My niece found me," Olivia said quietly, her face still in her hands, "before I even had a chance to hope."

Walter sighed. Hot tears escaped the gaps of her fingers, and she sniffed. "Are you upset because you tried, or because it didn't work?" he asked quietly.

"It's _your_ fault, you bastard!" she suddenly exploded, "You and your goddamn science fair projects! I didn't want any of this- I don't even know if my life is mine, anymore! All I've done, all I've achieved, is it mine, or some fucking plan you and Bell dreamt up while you were high?!"

Walter was quiet. His face hinted no emotion, even as she glared at him, her eyes red and savage. Unnerved at his impassive response, she went off again, "Why do _you_ get to forget?! You don't even know how much of a bastard you are!"

"Is this the first time you've tried to kill yourself?" Walter asked calmly.

Olivia looked suddenly frightened, possibly of the prospect that he knew something she did not.

"I see." Walter suddenly smiled fondly, rising, "I'll make hot chocolate."

"Why?"

"To celebrate, of course."

"You're crazy, Walter. Fucking crazy. I think I deserve to hate you."

"And I deserve to hate myself just as you hate yourself, agent Dunham," he murmured.

"Am I crazy?"

Walter grinned, "What do the voices tell you?"

"Fuck you," Olivia hissed.

Walter bowed low.

xXx


	2. 2: Absintheminded

2. Absinthe-minded

"We're here," Peter said, but he knew that his announcement was more to fill the silence than much else. He kicked open his own door, and did not turn to his father as he said, "come out when you're ready."

"Will she- the girl you're seeing, works at the lab…"

"Astrid?"

"Will she be here?"

"No. But she said she'd meet us for lunch."

Walter nodded silently, pressing his thumbs together as he stared at them. Peter shut the door behind himself, the car shocking only slightly at his force. Walter listened to himself breathe for a few moments as Peter let down the tailgate of the station wagon to get into the contents behind Walter's seat.

"You have too much crap in your car, Walter," Peter joked as he pulled out the spades.

"I do," Walter agreed. And immense fear had suddenly seized him, and he raised a hand to cover his chest, his heart feeling fluttery and faint. He breathed in through his nose and out his mouth, refusing to look over the back of the seat, "I really must clean it out."

Walter scooped up the soldering gloves draped over his knee, pushing rubbish aside as he scooted to the side of the car, pushing open the door and climbing out. He left his sweater in the seat- the breeze was chill now, but he'd be working up a sweat soon. He pushed up his sleeves and pulled on the gloves, the leather attire reaching nearly to his elbows. Peter smiled at him as he flexed his fingers to feel the stiffness of the protective hand wear.

"Give me a shovel," Walter instructed.

xXx

Absinthe. In viniculture, the same as Wormwood, it's main constituent. A drink of the worms. A beautiful green thief that stole away reality if only for a few short moments.

He'd surprised her with a bottle he had brewed himself, and they had settled down to try it, uninterrupted in the vacant lab, some time around midnight, as the storm, rumored to be one of the biggest and worst of the season, raged mutely outside the high, glass windows, a square blacked out now and again with duct tape.

Walter showed her how sugar cubes were dabbed with the harsh-smelling alcohol, just enough to set the fumes wafting from them ablaze in a bright blue display, before the cube was doused with absinthe, the chemical reaction transforming it from brilliant, indescribable green to a opaque, cataract white. She had only watched with a morbid, child-like curiosity.

"I'm afraid that I don't have my proper absinthe set, anymore," Walter apologized, "it was lost to me some time ago. But I think I have what we need to make due," he had presented their flutes in the form of long, wide vials, and used a pair of surgical tweezers to support the sugar cubes. The effect was pleasantly morbid.

They had only been sampling the brew for a few minutes, when Olivia, far newer to the experience than Walter, had complained of the heat- the first sign of the grips of the dementia the drink caused, and she had pulled off her jacket, draping it over the back of the overstuffed chair where she sat.

He immediately thought of her blushing body chilling under a chemical shower, and shook his head to clear the heat from his features.

She smiled at him as he stooped for another drink to distract himself, "What are you thinking?" she questioned, arching a brow.

"Bad things," he assured her with a smirk that may have been darker than he had intended.

"You do a lot of that," Olivia said, leaning forward to refill her vial, taking the opportunity to nibble the corner of a sugar cube before dropping it into the absinthe, stirring it until the liquid turned white.

Walter watched her with half-shut eyes, gracing his fingers along the edge of his own vial, "You're quite the chemist," he murmured, "but you're doing it wrong."

Olivia looked up at him, "Am I?"

Walter nodded, "You are. When you pour the absinthe, you pour it _over _the sugar cube. It makes for less stirring, less tainting from the metal of the swizzle stick."

Olivia chuckled as she sipped, "I think it tastes alright."

"Not much can be expected of home brew," Walter agreed. He leaned forward to take her vial, "please, allow me." and he set about remixing her drink properly.

Olivia chuckled over her interlaced fingers as she leaned back in her armchair, "So, you and Bell… you used to do this?"

"Quite a bit, actually," Walter answered, glancing up for a few brief moments at the taunt fabric of her slacks across her thigh. He popped a sugar cube into his mouth and crunched it.

"Artistic genius?"

"Boredom, agent Dunham. Inescapable boredom. I don't mean to brag, but in the field of genius, there is a point where you can find little else."

"And just how far did this boredom go?"

Walter looked up at her, a trace of color on his face. He handed her up her drink, moving back on the couch to smooth his fingers on the front of his trousers, "I think you'll find that more to taste, now." he ran his tongue over the sugar trapped in the divots of his molars, "I've done a great deal of harmful things, in my time. A field that you yourself seem to be rapidly expanding in."

"Thanks," Olivia said, taking a drink. He did not know if she were referring to her drink or her new, macabre method of self destruction. Walter shrugged his thoughts aside into his vial, finishing his absinthe and licking the bitter liquid off his upper lip, "Would you say I'm bored?" Olivia asked.

Walter considered, "No. Frustrated, perhaps angry."

"I'm angry?"

"I'm not you. I don't know. Mine are only swings and misses."

"Truthfully, I think that's the most rational thing I've ever heard you say, Walter."

"I try not to assume. Ass out of you and me, all that."

"Hearing you being more rational than me sucks, I think," Olivia ran her fingertip down the chilled length of the flask, "But I guess the sane are quick to judge the insane, right? And you said yourself that I'm not crazy."

"I'm reconsidering my answer. You did just call me rational."

Olivia laughed again- a truly mirthful, although hauntingly sad, act of sheer beauty, and Walter watched her throat move with her articulations. He hoped that it did not look as strange as his thoughts, "I guess it doesn't matter what I am. I'm here, aren't I?"

"You are that. I, however, cannot make the same claim, most of the time."

"And I'm lucky, in any case. I've never been around any guy that would whip me up some absinthe on a whim, you know?"

"It's very bad for you. I'm not helping."

"I'm tired of getting _helped_, Walter. I figure you understand that. Too much help only hinders, you've got to agree with me on that. But we made a deal. And just because I'm staying alive doesn't mean I have to enjoy it." she sipped a bit more of the absinthe, frowning more at her bitter thoughts than at the harshness of the milky white concoction.

"And why not?" Walter questioned, and she looked up at him, "if anything, with no care for your own wellbeing… what's not to enjoy?"

Olivia cracked a grin, "I'm glad you weren't a dad. You'd be the worst role model ever."

Walter nodded, "Peter's mother thought so, too."

"People like us aren't much fun to be around."

"Uh-huh," Walter murmured, shutting his eyes for a few moments as he breathed softly, feeling as if his chest were burning pleasantly and his thoughts humming like a well-oiled machine. He swallowed, leaning his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

"So that kick is normal?" Olivia questioned.

"Yes." he could count the fibers of the fabric of the couch arm under his fingertips.

"Damn. I thought I might be allergic or something."

"Everyone is. That's what fucks you up." Walter shut his eyes to stop the shadows from looking at him. He could still feel their black eyes criss-crossing his face, "Remember, agent Dunham, that this is not alcohol."

"I know." Her touch was amazing- a pins-and-needles feeling, like a minor offset of ecstasy, only saturated with paranoia. The feeling seemed to spread from his chest where her hands rested as she straddled his lap. He opened his eyes to look up at hers, the same color of the unsweetened absinthe.

"This is an interesting development," Walter said.

"Don't tell me you weren't thinking about it."

"I was entertaining the notion. I entertain a lot of notions, but none appear to be quite as alluring."

Her smile, however darkly enthralling, seemed vacant as she lowered her lips to his, tasting like the excess, dusty, bitter sugar at the bottom of the vial.

xXx


	3. 3: Aqua Regia

3. Aqua Regia

Walter wiped his forehead on his patterned button-down, smearing it with brown earth and sweat before he tossed it up, out of the hole. He set to work again, hauling dirt up in the scoop of the spade, flinging it out of his way. The efforts were smooth and mechanical, even a bit rushed, as his aching back protested his labors and his hands stung with splinters.

He liked the smell of the earth, rich and damp, and he had long before passed the depth of earthworms, which he had spent a good while cutting in half with his shovel, before feeling horribly guilty at his own actions. Bright green flecks of severed grass blades littered the off-rectangular hole now and again, and Walter sometimes saw how many he could manage to scoop up in one toss. His feet were freezing against the recently exposed sediment, while the back of his neck was slowly burning under the harsh ways of the sun. The hole was as deep as his shoulders, he had yet to reach his goal, and he'd been working on it for a good two hours.

Peter watched his father over the short-lived plumes of dirt arching up from the hole every now and again, observing the splotches of earth gracing the pure white of his under tee. There was room in there for the both of them, but Walter had made it fairly apparent from the start that he had wanted to do it himself. Peter had thought it best to leave him to his intentions, and only casually asked, after the seemingly endless duration of silence, "Is Olivia coming?"

Walter paused, like a gear jamming in his mechanical motions, and stabbed the shovel into the dirt sharply as he continued, "What is that supposed to mean, son?"

"I only meant that-"

"Are you asking if I've forgotten her, is that it? Is that what you're playing at?" Walter stood up strait, the shovel clenched in his dirty hands as he glared up at his son. He still felt exceptionally unthreatening, from his lowered position in the ground.

"Walter, that's not what I meant. You _know_ what I meant, and don't get so defensive," Peter replied firmly. He knew that there was a certain amount of firmness he had to use, with Walter, "You don't have to be paranoid at me."

Walter tuned his gaze to his own muddy shoes, biting the inside of his cheek as color swept over his features.

"I know you love her," Peter completed, his voice softer.

Walter shook his head, and returned to his work, "No. There isn't a word for what we are."

xXx

He would have passed off their interaction as absinthe, he'd done such things before. Had it not been for her phone call, some time afterward, he would have accomidated her in considering it a forgetful occasion, had she wished it. But her questions were not even that- they sounded like cold demands. As if he owed her the answers.

Walter answered obligingly.

He had been napping with his candy on the narrow window seat in the hotel room when the actual desk phone gave a chime. The sheer strangeness of it had been what had woken him, as nearly all communications for him arrived in person, or via Peter's cell phone. Walter had removed his face from the glass, rubbing drool from his flattened cheek as he moved for the phone, lifting the receiver, "Hello?" he had rasped, trying to swallow back his cottonmouth.

"Do you know where I live?"

"I beg your pardon? Who is this?" But he had already registered her voice. She knew he had, or simply decided not to answer.

"Come over."

He was quiet for a few moments, "Why?" He asked at last.

Olivia had chuckled, "Are you scared, Walter?"

"No."

Truthfully, he could not remember how he had ended up at her apartment. He could have walked, she could have made him wait in the rain to pick him up. All he could remember is finding her door unlocked and letting himself in, dripping on the wood floor as he shrugged off his overcoat and smeared rainwater from his forehead.

"You're a horrible liar," Olivia chuckled from the hallway, her hands in the pockets of her bathrobe, "but you called my bluff. I thought you wouldn't come."

"I considered it," Walter answered, "I considered letting you get angry, standing you up. I imagine you would have hated me for at least a little while."

"I already hate you, Walter."

"I realized that, as well. My actions would have proven pointless."

She smiled- without the absinthe, but the effect was the same. It was a look that Walter did not like in the least, without the proper aide of his narcotics, "Go home," she murmured.

"No."

"Then come here."

"No."

"You're stubborn. If I wanted a weak attempt at rebellion, I would have called someone with a little more backbone. You're pathetic- I can see right through you."

"You're childish. A little girl thinking that just because she doesn't care for consequence, she can treat her life like pretend, like people are dollies. It's disgusting and _sad_."

She kissed him and tugged him into the bathroom. The air was a nagging kind of muggy, the white of the porcelain unpleasant to his irises, and his sights found comfort in the shade of her skin. The stiff bandages around her wrists scraped against the back of his neck as she pressed him, fully clothed, into the uncomfortably hot water in the bathtub, the rainwater tinting it a slight shade of sallow.

The color of cowards.

"How would you kill yourself, Walter?" Olivia asked, climbing in after him, discarding her cotton robe. The dark stains of bruises shown faintly on her shoulders, proof of his previous misdeeds.

"Overdose," He answered immediately, inhaling the steam permeating from her skin like a zest.

"Why?"

"It's not as easy as it seems. I've been trying for years. And you, agent Dunham? Still by the blade?" he caught her wrist with a mocking smirk at her failure.

Olivia wrenched her arm from his grip, and forced his head under the water, one hand over his lips, the other crushing his trachea. The base of his skull collided with the bottom of the tub, his vision flashing, and Walter immediately gripped the side of the tub, his wet hand slipping as he thrashed slightly.

Her grip loosened only minutely, and Walter discovered her motive.

Hot damn.

He opened his eyes under the surface, staring up at her wavy reflection, the hot water stinging the inside of his nostrils. A small trail of bubbles escaped her fingers, working their way to the surface. His hands found her hips, and he felt the water slosh as he pulled her closer. The wet ends of her tresses clung to his face as she allowed him to rise, never pausing for a breath as he caught her mouth with his own.

"I'm a cop," she sighed against his cheek at last, "I'll shoot myself."

xXx


	4. 4: Cardiac Neurosis

4: Cardiac Neurosis

"Do you want me to… do it?"

"No." Walter reached up to grip the offered shovel head, ignoring the pain of his cracking palms as he used the leverage to scramble up the nearly vertical side of the hole, dirt and rubble raining from his efforts. The dried surface soil was a powdery shade of grey against the dark, cold, damp of the bottom. Peter helped him up the rest of the way, and at last he stood, dusting his trousers. Peter stared at him until he was forced to meet his gaze, having looked everywhere else, "I need you down there to-" Walter cleared his throat, shaking his head.

"Okay. The back is open," Peter slipped over the edge, dropping down, "and don't even think of leaving me down here," he joked.

Walter stood, looking down at Peter for a few moments. He turned sharply, and ran for the car.

He bruised his knee as he climbed into the back of the Vista Cruiser, sweeping junk aside with his arms as he tried to clear the weight from an old, grey and blue U-Haul throw. At last he tugged up the blanket, sweeping it aside with a flurry of movement to reveal the inky black shine of a body bag. Walter recoiled, striking his head on the roof as he sat back on his ankles heavily. His trembling hand found his lips rather than either of his bruises, and he swallowed back the sticky feeling of grief in his mouth.

It was very hard to think of it as a necessity.

He thought that he'd be used to it, at this point. But it was even worse, when he _touched_ her- if he only looked at the body bag, he could pretend that it was anybody. But when he gathered up the corpse, the weight and the slide of lifeless muscles in his arms and in his lap told him that it was Olivia.

He touched his lips to the dark plastic covering her shoulder as he weakly held her closely, knowing that inside, in the suffocating dark, she was flawless- he'd preserved her perfectly. He hadn't even cut her hair, taking every caution to care for it when he'd attached her to his machines, brushing aside the flaxen strands to attach the receptors. But he knew that if he opened the cocoon of black, and saw her face again, he'd take her back to his laboratory…

Walter had always been very bad with goodbyes.

xXx

They would sometimes talk in the dark, but it was rare, and only when touch had failed itself to communicate their every thought, after the threats and insults. Words were very weak, very limited- but, at times, necessary, it seemed. And she had desperately needed them, now that he thought back.

"Does this mean I'm yours?" Olivia asked, and Walter knew she watched him blindly from across the sheets. The white expanse was cold, her limbs light enough to blend with them, and he searched for only the tell-tale warmth and scent of her skin beneath the blankets, his hand stretching out for her voice at last.

"I don't own myself." His fingertips graced hers at a distance. They were warm, much warmer than his own.

"No one wants me."

"That's not true."

"If you and Belly could make me again, start over on me, would you craft me so that someone could love me?"

"I delude myself in thinking that perhaps at last I've created someone to love me," Walter said quietly, enjoying the way the clean linens felt against his ribcage, and he held his breath for a few moments to expand his diaphragm against them.

"Don't say that you love me, Walter."

"It takes more than a good lay to trick me into such things, agent Dunham." But he knew it was a lie- and it went much further. Perhaps he was that material, after all, or perhaps he was simply desperate for the company.

"A _very_ good lay," Olivia pointed out, and Walter chuckled. She shifted under the blankets, and he could feel the warmth of her body grow nearer, as she ran her palm up the length of his arm, and slid her thigh over his hip. She kissed his throat, and hesitantly nestled into his collar bone.

"I don't love you either, Walter," she said, her voice small and weak. Her fingers against his chest curled into fists. Small, trembling fists- her knuckles were probably white.

Walter traced hair from the smooth curve of her shoulder, "I know." _I know how it feels to be alone._

He'd started a fire, when they'd told him. The acid he'd been carrying had spilled onto the cotton hem of a dust cover when he'd dropped the containing cylinder to shatter on the floor, raising his hands to cover his mouth in horror. It had gone ignored.

"They found her this morning in her apartment," Peter said quietly, "they think… they think it was suicide."

"No." Walter managed to utter. And he meant it. Even as he stood over her listless form, Charlie stooping to gather the magnum from it's dropped place on the floor, he knew, he _knew_ she hadn't done it. She'd promised him she wouldn't. This creature that had so recently been trembling and crying in his arms, telling him how much she hated him, simply couldn't have had the strength…

He still didn't believe it, truthfully.

He could only tell the difference between the tears Astrid cried into the collar of his black suit and the rain at the back of his neck from the temperature difference, and he was guilty of preferring the warmth of her sadness to the cold of the rain's indifference. At the funeral, he did not cry, as there would be time for such things later. To the contrary, Walter's mind was on fire- he had to find whoever had done this to her. It was obvious they had meant it to look like a suicide, but he was certain she had been poisoned- what the hell did the coroner know, anyways?

Whomever it was, he would find them. Heads would roll.

xXx


	5. 5: An Acid Disposition

5: An Acid Disposition

"Walter?"

Walter did not look up, his mind on other things. Perhaps hate, perhaps denial.

"Walter," Peter continued softly, his anger at being left down in the hole for over an hour and having to dig his way out forgotten, "…are you…crying?"

"No, son," Walter answered. But sudden thoughts of himself, and how pathetic and alone he felt began to flood him, leaving him trembling and weeping uncontrollably. Peter climbed into the back with him, and it only seemed to get worse, as Walter was further made aware of how sad he seemed. Tears and shame burned on his face as he hid in his son's collar, and Peter gathered him close, "It's not fair, how she could leave me like this!" Walter suddenly wailed, his fingers gripping her hidden limbs until his knuckles ached, "She didn't even give me a chance, god damn it! I should have known she would be so selfish-!"

"I know, Walter," Peter murmured softly, covering Walter's trembling hands with his own to calm him, "I know."

"She really did hate me! It's not fair- why didn't they just leave me at St. Claire's?! Why did she _trap _me into caring?!"

"I think she believed in you, Walter," Peter said, "I just don't think she believed in herself."

xXx

He had waited until Peter was sleeping to take the car keys. Even though they had only been in the their new house for a few, short weeks, he knew enough about the noises of the place to jump the last stair, stay to the left of the hall to avoid the creaky planks, and lift the door slightly to keep the hinges from squeaking.

He hadn't been behind the wheel in quite some time, and the rain and sudden gusts of wind did not aide him, or his bleak feelings of anxiousness. For hours he had driven around, lost, his objective forgotten, pulling to the side of the road every now and again to ponder why anger and sadness weighed on his chest.

He killed the lights as he turned the bend to the cemetery, the last thing visible through the sheets of rain a tall, wrought-iron gate. Walter stopped the car and pulled the hood of his parka over his head as he plunged into the rain, wedging a crowbar into the links of chain that held the gate shut and twisting, freeing the lock. He pushed the gate open with a clang as lightening flashed overhead.

Walter pulled the car onto the cemetery grounds, the shapes of crosses and silhouettes of mausoleums seeming to mock him from the dark. At last he reached a place, secluded from the rest, on a hill near a tree. Her place.

Good. Then the mud would run off.

Walter did not know how long it took, shoveling and clawing his way through the wet, heavy soil, his trembling breath fogging in the wet air, to reach her casket. He was made aware of just how far down six feet was, as he hurried- there was still a chance, if he could reach her in time…

His heart suddenly dropped as his spade hit something solid beneath the soil, and the fear of concrete suddenly gripped him. But his spirits rose again as he dropped to his knees in the hole, his dirty fingers scrambling over the smooth surface of polished wood, and he nearly laughed as he pushed dripping bangs from his eyes with his muddy forearm, "I have to talk to you," he breathed, and set to work once more.

Water saturated his trouser legs as rain continued to fill the grave, and he managed to secure the ropes around the casket, at last scrambling up the sloughing side to fall forward, and climb back to his feet, scrambling into the station wagon and starting it. He bit his lip and hoped that the soil was not too soft, and he slowly shifted into drive, and began to drag the coffin to the surface. He exclaimed happily as, at last, his burden reached the surface, and he jumped from the car, sloshing around to begin taking down the tackle as rain baptized filth from the gold-colored coffin.

Walter used the car jack to hoist one end of the box to the lowered tailgate, and used the last of his strength to push it in, all the way to the back seat. At last, in an exhausted haze, he gathered his tools and spade, leaving the empty grave he had torn her body from.

The grit in his fingers and sour taste of rain water constantly reminded him of what he was doing, and it wasn't long before Walter pulled onto the Harvard campus, bringing the car around to the Kreski building and beginning his preparations to transport her body.

He used the crowbar to pry open her tomb, kicking the top away. He covered her with his parka as he gathered up her lifeless form, hoisting her up and hurrying inside.

Carefully, almost tenderly, Walter stripped away her white silk dress, laying her gently on the frozen cold pads on a gurney, and he draped a white cotton sheet over her, topping it with more freeze pads. He knew that first, the formaldehyde had to be cleared from her system, and started a simultaneous IV of plasma matching her bloodtype-- there had to be blood, in the brain. He taped small, electronic stimulators at her energy centers, replicating the circulatory beating of her now still heart. The cold would keep her cells from rupturing, at the electric charges.

Yes, yes- this just might work.

At last, Walter sat at her side, trembling with exhaustion as he struggled not to collapse. He watched quietly as her face remained calm, devoid of expression, and the blinking and beeping of her mechanical pulse felt hypnotizing, as he raised his hand, smoothing his thumb over her temple, where they had stitched her wound shut, and his fingers traced the curve of her jaw. "It's for you, my dear," his words found his lips before he had time to organize them- pure thought articulated, "You can't have left me. You're my last chance to make it right again." His brows furrowed as he leaned over her, "You can't take that from me, damn it." And he shut his eyes as he bit her lips in a kiss.

He came to his senses, his cheek against the back of her cold hand, as someone cried, "Jesus Christ!"

Walter sat up, blinking around, at the mud on his clothes and the morning light in the lab. And at Peter, who watched him in utter horror, and Astrid, tears running silently down her face as she held her hands over her mouth, "Walter," Peter breathed, "Walter… Jesus, Walter, why…?"

Walter blinked down at Olivia, then looked back at them, "Peter, I--"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!" Peter suddenly roared, charging across the lab to grip his father by the collar, slamming him back into the centrifuge to send equipment clattering and smashing on the floor, "You sick son of a _bitch_!" Peter bared his teeth, bringing a right hook across his jaw.

"Peter!" Walter cried, "Peter, it's not too late--"

"I'm sending you back!" Peter retorted, tears welling in his eyes, "You _belong_ in St. Claire's, you disgusting, crazy son of a bitch, how could you-?!" Peter raised his fist again, and Walter flinched away with a cry, blood escaping the split of his lip.

"I love her, Peter!" Walter suddenly wept.

Peter paused. Astrid sobbed and ran from the lab.

"I know it's horrible! I know I'm contemptible, a monster! But she was my last chance!" Walter raised his hands to rub burning tears from his eyes, "If I could make her happy, if I could fix her, I could fix all of it! And- and she-!"

"Walter, she's dead," Peter whispered, gripping the sides of his father's face to stare into his eyes. Walter hiccupped helplessly, "She's dead, don't you understand?!"

"But-"

"There's no buts, Walter. That's where you go wrong- sometimes, you just have to stop, do you understand? That's why you're crazy, Walter- you never knew when to stop."

Slowly, his eyes downcast, Walter nodded.

Peter nodded with him, "You need help, Walter."

"I do." Walter swallowed, looking back up at his son, "So am I…?"

"I don't know, Walter. We'll see. We can fix all of this like it never happened, then we'll see. Jesus Christ, Walter." Peter released him and turned away, raking his fingers back, through his hair. Walter sniffed, and rubbed his bloody lips on his sleeve, "Turn all of this shit off." Peter sighed, and left.

xXx


	6. FINAL CHAPTER: Angstrom

FINAL CHAPTER: Angstrom

He didn't think he would ever forget the smell of fresh soil in his nostrils for as long as he lived.

"Walter?"

It was not a demand, not the way Peter said his name, nor a reprimand, as if he had done something wrong again. It was a soft, gentle question, as soft and warm as the breeze that grazed the tree canopy overhead, "are you awake?"

"Yes," he answered at last. His chest hurt, from laying on it rather than from grief. Truthfully, he had never been asleep- he simply lacked the energy to lift himself from the ground.

"I didn't want to come here, Walter. And Peter told me to leave you alone."

"I'm never alone."

"Are you done?" Astrid asked, watching him from a distance, "with… everything?"

"Yes." So many different bases covered, with a single word.

"Do you want to get lunch?"

Walter said nothing, wondering just how terrible he looked, to her. But what he could not stand to see on her face was the pity- Peter hid pity well, he had never loved his son more than when he had lashed out at him. But this girl, her pity was painfully honest, and Walter did not know if he could take looking into her large, dark eyes, and realizing her grief was for him.

Peter was right. He did want to be left alone.

"You're pretty dirty, Walter," Astrid said with a wry smile.

"I'm cold, too," Walter agreed. He curled onto his side to remove his weight from his sternum, and he curled his fingers into the slightly overgrown grass, finding it itchy against his skin.

"Do you want your coat?"

"No, thank you." Walter shut his eyes as he suddenly felt a wave of nausea sweep over him, "I'll be up in a bit, I'm just being lazy. Peter would have kicked me by now, ha ha." He smiled, taking deep breaths to calm his churning stomach.

"Walter, do you really think… she was killed?" Astrid asked.

Walter was quiet for a few moments, his mind feeling more precarious than his gut, "No. I know she wasn't murdered."

"Then why-"

"I wanted answers. I still want them. But what makes life… _life_? I don't think I'll ever put my finger on it, really, there are far too many variables. There's death involved. And that's key, really. Nothing much can be accomplished, without it- but it often brings about a rather abrupt end, to the festivities."

"You're not making sense," Astrid admitted.

"Do I ever?"

"Is Peter sending you back to St. Claire's?"

"I don't know. Do you think I belong there?" At last Walter raised his gaze to look at her, "As a punishment? For misbehaving? It's why I ended up there last time."

Astrid was silent for a few moments. Her answer was carefully chosen. "What makes this hell any different than the one you'd live at St Claire's?"

Walter smiled- it felt strange, as he had somehow come to believe that his face had become a permanent grimace, "Smart girl. The difference is that no one would be forced to watch my idling in purgatory."

"I won't let him send you back," Astrid said, "and I won't let you send yourself back, either."

"I don't know if I should thank you, or cry."

"If you really did love Olivia, Walter, you'll stay. You'll realize that what she did wasn't because she thought you'd let her down, it was because she thought she would let you down. That if you gave up on her, you'd give up on everything again… but it seems pretty plain to me that you're not one for giving up."

"I'm laying here, aren't I?"

"But you'll get up soon enough." Astrid came to stand over him, offering her hand to him with a frown, "and hopefully shower, you mudskipper. Look at you."

Walter chuckled, taking her help and stumbling upright. He stood with Astrid in the quiet, watching the mound of earth that hid Olivia, and again the urge tugged at him to rip her from her resting place, as if she were behind a barrier that, if he waited long enough, would become impassable. But Astrid's hot grip on his dusty fingers kept him still, until at last they turned away, Walter dragging the spade up, onto his shoulder, and he sighed tiredly. He wondered how many people had wished for the same things he had.

To change things. To alter mistakes. But mostly, not to feel that perhaps their mistakes had brought them something greater.

xXx

END.


End file.
